Chapter 7 - A Medical Revelation
The heat of August in the Oakridge valley was oppressive, a heavy, motionless weight that turned the pastures yellow and made the cattle crowd beneath the shade of the seven ancient oaks.
Hannah had been feeling unwell for a week. Every morning at 4:30, when she stood up to stoke the kitchen fire, a sudden, dizzying wave of nausea would force her back onto the iron bedstead. Her skin was pale, and she had developed a strange, intense aversion to the smell of the lard biscuits she had baked every day for months.
Clara noticed it first. She walked into the kitchen one morning to find Hannah leaning against the dry-sink, her forehead pressed against the cool tin, her face covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
"Hannah," Clara said, setting down the milk bucket. "You're sick. You've been sick every morning since Sunday. I'm calling Father to take you to the clinic in Oakridge."
"No," Hannah whispered, her hand moving to her stomach. "It's just the heat, Clara. The kitchen is too hot during the August bake."
"It's not the heat," Clara said, her voice carrying a sudden, intuitive intelligence that made Hannah look up. Clara walked over, her eyes fixing onto Hannah's waist line, which had softened slightly beneath her denim apron over the last few weeks. "You need to see Dr. Warren, Hannah. Not the town doctor. The old doctor from the county seat. The one Bradley lied about."
Two days later, Thomas’s truck drove past the Milton County parish, stopping in front of the small, ivy-covered brick clinic of Dr. Arthur Warren. The old physician had served the county for forty years; he was a stern, silent man who wore gold-rimmed spectacles and had a reputation for absolute, incorruptible honesty.
Hannah sat on the examination table, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Thomas stood by the window, his hat in his hands, his face tight with a quiet, protective anxiety.
Dr. Warren finished his examination, stepping back and wiping his hands on a clean white towel. He looked at Hannah through his spectacles, his expression entirely unreadable.
"Hannah," the old man said, his voice dry as parchment. "Three months ago, Bradley Fleming stood at the altar of the Methodist church and claimed that he had spoken to me regarding your medical records. He claimed that I had informed him that you were infertile."
Hannah nodded, her breath catching in her throat. "Yes, sir."
"I have never spoken to Bradley Fleming in my life regarding your health," Dr. Warren said, his voice rising with a sudden, professional fury that made his spectacles shake. "The only time that boy ever entered my office was to request a penicillin shot for an infection he contracted during his trips to the city. What he did to you was a criminal slander, Hannah. Because looking at you today... you are as healthy a young woman as I have ever examined."
Hannah felt the room spin. "But... but the test he claimed—"
"He manufactured it," Dr. Warren interrupted, walking over to his desk and picking up a small, leather-bound stethoscope. He turned to face her, a small, rare smile breaking through his stern whiskers. "And he’s going to look like a fool in front of the entire state now. Because Hannah... you are currently seven weeks pregnant. The child is healthy, the heartbeat is strong, and based on the timeline, it belongs to the man standing by that window."
Hannah looked at Thomas. The massive farmer stood frozen by the glass, his hat dropping from his hands into the dust of the floorboards. His grey eyes were wide, suddenly filled with a brilliant, blinding light that swept away the two years of darkness and grief he had carried since his first wife’s death.
He crossed the room in two massive strides, dropping to his knees beside the examination table. He didn't care about the doctor; he didn't care about the rules of propriety. He took Hannah’s soft hands in his calloused palms, burying his face in her lap as his massive shoulders began to shake with a deep, silent weeping of pure, unadulterated joy.
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"A child," Thomas whispered into the denim of her skirt. "Our child, Hannah."
"Our child," she repeated, her tears finally breaking through, her fingers tangling in his thick, sun-bleached hair as she looked down at the family they were building out of the ruins of a tycoon's lie.
